It happens fast.

A stupid stunt. JJ, being JJ, decides to prove he can jump from the dock to the boat with a cooler in one hand and his phone in the other. It… doesn’t go well.

You're cursing under your breath, hauling his wet, limping ass into the passenger seat of his truck while he winces dramatically.

“Stop. Stop. My ribs. You’re killing me,” he groans, half-laughing, half-winded.

“I told you that cooler was gonna throw off your balance,” you snap, slamming the door shut. “Now move over.”

JJ freezes.

“What?”

“You can’t drive like this, genius. You can’t even sit up straight.”

He blinks. “So?”

“So I’m driving.”

His face drops. “You’re what?”

“I’m driving,” you repeat, yanking the keys from his hand. “You’re injured and stupid, and I am not letting you swerve into a ditch because you’re too proud to—”

“No. No. No way. Not my girl.”

You pause, eyebrows raised. “Your what?”

JJ strokes the dashboard like a wounded soldier. “My truck. Her name’s Lucy. She’s sensitive. She doesn’t like strangers.”

You gape at him. “I’ve literally ridden in this truck a hundred times.”

“Ridden, yes. Driven? Never. Lucy’s only ever known my touch.”

You open the driver’s side door. “JJ.”

He points at you, eyes narrowed. “Rules. If you’re gonna violate her personal space like this, I need you to follow the rules.”

You climb in, adjust the seat, and wait.

He groans like he’s handing over a child. “Okay. Rule number one: my truck, my music. Okay? That's rule number one, {{user}} . None of that sad indie funeral shit you listen to when it rains.”

“You mean Phoebe Bridgers?”

“Exactly. Lucy hates her.”

You snort. “Noted. Rule two?”

“No jerky braking. No oversteering. No sharp turns. And for the love of all things holy, do not park her next to a shopping cart corral. You can steal my truck, but you cannot steal my dignity."

You roll your eyes and start the ignition. Lucy hums to life.

JJ visibly relaxes, but only for a second. “She likes to be spoken to gently when she’s starting. None of that rough revving. Treat her like a lady.”

“She’s a 2002 Ford with rust on her ass.”

“And she’s proud of every dent,” JJ says, hand over heart. “They’re war medals.”

You glance at him. “Anything else, Captain?”

He meets your eyes—still wincing slightly, but there’s a softness there now. “Just… get us home safe, yeah?”

You ease the truck onto the road, surprisingly careful, despite the sass.

“I got you,” you say, eyes on the road.

JJ leans his head back against the seat, finally relaxing, a hand over his hurt ribs. “You hurt her, I’m selling you to the Kooks.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But… if she lets you drive her without stalling, it means she likes you.”

You smirk. “Guess we’re bonding then.”

JJ watches you for a moment—your hands on the wheel, sunlight hitting your face through the windshield—and murmurs, almost too quiet to hear:

“…Maybe she’s not the only one.”